


An Arrow in the Night

by Etnoe



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Kree (Marvel), Politics, Resurrection, Slavery, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 17:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etnoe/pseuds/Etnoe
Summary: There's too much left of Yondu Udonta for the Kree to waste. It's time for him to go back where he belongs - the battlefield where he was bound.





	An Arrow in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this in a discussion about Vol. 2: 
> 
> _All I want from fanfic at this point is fixit fic, ngl. Reams and reams of the team finding Yondu's soul For Reasons or bad guys capturing him in a soul gem and trying to use him against the Guardians or it turning out that Kree slavery doesn't end with death. I want every word about the team rescuing Yondu beamed directly into my eyeballs._
> 
> And went OOH that magic Kree slavery one, that would be HORRIBLE :D

* * *

  
There was never nothing but night. It could be easy to stop feeling the truth of that fact when a life was led in space without any true mooring, a nomad speck within the swallowing black - the mind opened wide and took in too much of space in turn. But the darkest distance never could hide away bright planets, stars, nebulae, or the sub-pulses of sound that welled out of everything from unseen obstacles to raging star-fields, making senses 8 through 11 zing even if the average ear couldn't bear to take it in. Or, on looking out a porthole, the clan ships travelling alongside, because they usually didn’t let that much distance come between in the first place.

It could be a single ship, perhaps the same make as the bog-standard cruiser you lived on that seemed to be expending efforts to close in on your head, and it might not be a companion for long at all - everybody had their own business and interests to deal with. The sight could still seem like a brighter thing than simple fact would allow for, for the plain knowledge of new people being so close, the company, and the offer of support implied in the closeness.

So Ravager ships spoke in colour. It got the message across to whoever was close, it got to the gut. It claimed them a part of space, always bright and always dark, and close enough to see a thousand shades of. Warnings, laughter, dismissal, alerts, greetings: The Nova Corps got signalled with yellow of some kind or the other, acknowledgement for all that bright light they put to work fighting with and losing despite of. Kree got pink of the shade of the lesser caste's skin, because anything to piss off the blue elite who were more uniformly total pricks than any other species in the major trafficked galaxies. Fucking-off specifications came along a whole range of the blue to violet spectrum, given that most species' privates did too. Greens - 'you sick over there?' or 'why the hell would you try that?' or 'get a load of this'. For 'race you', you start moving first and then fire your ship's own personal colour in a quick one-two-three set of bursts. Oranges, come have a drink or a fight. Red, and you welcomed new recruits - the kindest or the most violently insulting thing you could say to another crew.

When you died, everybody had something to say about it, naturally, and went on and said everything, because judgement with no payback riding after it was a fun thing to have. Or maybe they hauled the lever right down to let out their colour with no thinking-through, that was an option too... All they hoped for was to make the night more like home.

Yondu found in himself the knowledge that there were a lot of people doing their best not to think much what they were saying about and to him, or they'd end up not saying anything. Vicious, lone-standing thing that he was, he was proud. Soft thing that he was, he mourned the living for the words they might have said - a good natter was a pretty good time, to his mind.

Whole though he finally was, star-striding, he was hungry for those colours, the last messages he would get from his mourned mourners, and he gratefully-greedily took all that was poured forth in his name, straining for sparks and flecks.

That was how the Accusers, always devotedly questing and alert, found him.


End file.
